Back To The Divide (23 page)

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***

Turpsik shrugged off the japegrin who tried to usher her into the palace, marched into Snakeweed's office, and regarded him contemptuously with her one eye.

Snakeweed looked up. "I've got a little proposition for you, Turpsik. Write me an epic poem about the death of Harshak and you can have a series of poetry readings here at the palace."

Turpsik wondered how serious Snakeweed was. "Need to think about it," she said cautiously.

"Don't take too long," said Snakeweed. "I can always get hold of another one-eye."

"But not one as distinguished as myself," said Turpsik. "There's an awful lot of rubbish being written at the moment."

"How true," said Snakeweed. "You'll let me have an answer by this evening then, will you? I'm offering you a whole hour, once a week, and the best performers gold can buy."

"I recite my poetry myself," said Turpsik sharply.

"Whatever," said Snakeweed.

Turpsik went to the library, where she could work at her leisure. Just as she was jotting down a few ideas a couple of japegrins walked past. Turpsik's hearing was very acute, so when one of them nodded in her direction and said, "You know who that is?" she angled her head to hear better. Would they pluck up sufficient courage to ask her for her autograph?

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"Turpsik," said the second japegrin. Turpsik patted her vile red hair into place and waited. "You'll never guess what Snakeweed said about that anthem of hers," said the first japegrin. Turpsik smiled to herself.

"He said a cuddyhorn could have done better, and the gassy backfires would have added a bit of light relief."

Turpsik shut her notebook with a bang. The sooner she was out of Andria the better. She marched out of the library, ignoring the japegrin at the information desk. The triple-head was being fed something disgusting.

"This is a choice bit of tail," said Head Number Two to Head Number One. "Can I offer you a peck?"

"How generous," said Number One. "Would you care for a beakful of liver?"

"Hold on," said Number Three, catching sight of Turpsik. "There's a one-eye trying to leave the library."

"Been told you have to have an escort," said Number One.

"Need to wait for one of the militia from the palace," said Number Two.

The first arrival from the palace happened to be Grimspite, in lickit form, stuck with his two-legged guise until Snakeweed gave him his manuscript back. The only advantage was that he didn't smell quite as foul as he usually did; it was becoming clear that people noticed that sort of thing, and his personal hygiene had improved to no end. As soon as he got his book he intended to go off and look for a

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brittlehorn to lift the blocking spell so he could get rid of Snakeweed once and for all. He glanced at Turpsik, who was sitting on the grass scribbling in a notebook. "What are you doing?" he asked her.

"Writing a poem telling Snakeweed exactly what I think of him."

Grimspite could see that Turpsik was unlikely to survive her next meeting with the president in one piece. "I'll escort her," he said to the triple-head.

"Password!" squawked Head Number One immediately.

"Fangs and talons."

"We've got a new one now."

"Oh," said Grimspite, "that's nice. What is it?"

"Vamprey."

"Vamprey," said Grimspite.

"It has to be one of the militia, though," said Head Number One. "Even if you do know the password."

The other two heads emerged from the feathers, and they all spent a few minutes discussing recipes. Then Grimspite said, "You work very long shifts."

"We get time off."

"We quite like guarding things, actually."

"There are more interesting jobs," said Grimspite. "The new letter delivery service, for instance. It has two triple-heads working for it already, but they want more. You'd see the world
and get
paid for it."

"We like foreign food," said Number Three. After a brief

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discussion with the other heads the bird took off, and the only sign it had ever been there was a pile of white droppings on the statue of Flintfeather.

"Come on," said Grimspite to Turpsik, "let's get moving."

"Go choke on a fish bone," said Turpsik.

Grimspite sighed. "You don't recognize me, do you?"

"One lickit looks pretty much like another to me."

"It's me. Grimspite," he said, sounding disappointed. "Look, I felt really bad about what I said about your anthem. When Snakeweed insulted my cookbook I understood exactly how you felt. Helping you escape was the best way I could think of to say sorry."

"I suppose I shouldn't expect a sinistrom to know all that much about rhyme and meter," said Turpsik. "Let's face it, most beings can't tell a fish-saga from a fishing-song. Apology accepted."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh,
thank
you," said Grimspite, with feeling. "I've been trying so hard to learn about friendship, and all I seem to do is mess it up."

"You'd make a lot of friends if you got rid of Snakeweed," said Turpsik.
"Pukeberry eyes and a rancid smile, Snakeweed's face was etched with bile."

"I can't touch him," said Grimspite, "much as I'd like to. He cast a blocking spell on me."

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"Need a brittlehorn to lift that. Listen -- I need to get away from Andria. A long way away. Don't have the legs for it anymore, though."

Grimspite glanced down. Turpsik's goaty knees were rather podgy, and her ankles were far too thick to be athletic. "You could steal a fire-breather," he said. "I have access to Snakeweed's one."

A smile spread across Turpsik's face. "There's a brittlehorn herd near Geddon," she said. "Why don't you come with me?"

"What about my manuscript?"

"Steal it."

"But it's in Snakeweed's safe."

"Haven't you ever heard him recite the opening spell?"

"Well ... yes. But I'm not sure I can remember all of it...."

"Cracked a few safes in my time," said Turpsik with a smile. "Poetry can be a dangerous profession. Tell me what you remember, my friend, and I'll see if I can fill in the gaps."

Grimspite felt a warm glow envelop him. He was friends with Turpsik again, and it felt great.

Turpsik grabbed hold of Grimspite rather tightly as the fire-breather galloped down the runway, and Grimspite tightened his hold on his newly retrieved manuscript.

Turpsik hadn't been on a fire-breather before, but she found the cold rush of air once they reached cruising speed

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delightfully bracing. There was a poem in this, somewhere. She watched the landscape unfold beneath her like a tablecloth. The Andrian mountains gave way to foothills, then to a vast ocher plain with scrubby little bushes and the occasional herd of lyre-horns. She saw the smudge of Tiratattle away to the north, and then they were over a dark mass of forest, interlaced with silvery rivers. At one point they passed over a strange stone building with a hedge around it, but it was too far below her to make out any detail. They stopped for the night by a wide river that wound its way between fields of flowers. Turpsik told the fire-breather how to fish with its wings, using them as a sort of umbrella. It learned very quickly, gulping a few down as it went and throwing the rest onto the bank. When it had caught enough, it stepped out of the water, barbecued a couple of fish for Turpsik and Grimspite, and ate the rest itself. After that it burped for rather a long time. Turpsik loosened the waistband of her pink dress and sighed with pleasure.

Before long the fire-breather dozed off, and Turpsik leaned against its warm body and toyed with a few stanzas about leathery wings and favorite things. And then she was asleep.

Snakeweed stood in front of his safe, vaguely aware that something was missing and realizing that he had a cash-flow problem. There were only two crocks of gold left -- perhaps he'd copied the Roman Emperor style of government a little too closely. Bread and circuses had impressed the Romans;

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cheap toadstools and free wailing concerts had worked just as well in Andria, but they'd been more expensive than he'd anticipated. The idea came to him as he stood there, staring at Harshak's pebble. Brazzle gold.

"You're a genius, Snakeweed," he said out loud to himself. All male brazzles hoarded gold, even though they weren't that interested in making more of it. They just liked hanging on to what they'd got. There would be enough money on Tromm Fell to solve all his problems. He could take Harshak's pebble, summon the renegade sinistrom on arrival, and use him to force Ironclaw into revealing the whereabouts of his gold. He'd need some assistance to load it on to his fire-breather, however....

Grimspite looked down as he and Turpsik circled above Geddon on Snakeweed's fire-breather. "Can't land a fire-breather this size down there," said Grimspite. "They don't even have a proper runway, they just use the main road."

"Fly on, then," said Turpsik. "If there's a brittlehorn herd there'll be a brittlehorn valley, and that'll be big enough."

Snakeweed made his way to the livery stables accompanied by two of his militia, Pepperwort and Stonecrop. He pushed open the stable door and stopped dead. "Where's my
Whopper?"
he shouted.

Pepperwort looked blankly at Stonecrop, wondering what on earth Snakeweed was talking about.

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"Never flown before, Pepperwort?" observed Stonecrop with a slightly superior expression. "Fire-breathers come in several sizes --
Bigguns, Biggeruns,
and
Whoppers."

Pepperwort wrinkled his nose, wishing he had a cold so that he couldn't smell his surroundings quite so strongly. This was his first experience of a livery stable, and he didn't like it. The pungent aroma of red-hot dung mingled with the smell of cuddyak entrails, which lingered long after the offal itself had been eaten. Some of the overhead beams were singed and blackened, and a row of iron hooks on the wall trailed thick leather harnesses. There were several fire-breathers asleep in their stalls, little puffs of white smoke punctuating their deep, regular breathing. The stall directly opposite them -- and the focus of Snakeweed's attention -- was, however, quite empty.

"Someone's stolen it," said Snakeweed indignantly. "How
dare
they."

Pepperwort and Stonecrop looked around for the proprietor, but there was no one in sight.

"We'll just have to take someone else's," said Snakeweed. "Pity there aren't any other
Whoppers.
Pepperwort, go and saddle up Number Five."

Pepperwort beckoned to Stonecrop to help him lift down the saddle, a four-seater with a business-class luggage compartment.

"Get a move on," said Snakeweed.

Pepperwort took a deep breath, but he didn't rush it. He

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approached the stall with extreme caution and unfastened the fire-breather's halter.

The fire-breather carried on snoring.

"Er, excuse me," said Pepperwort.

The fire-breather carried on snoring.

"Hey!" yelled Pepperwort.

The fire-breather awoke with a start and looked around nervously. Then it had a good cough.

"Come on," said Pepperwort, "you're taking us to Tromm Fell."

A pained expression crossed the fire-breather's face, and it slowly got to its feet. It had another good cough and shook itself. A couple of scales hit the ground with a dull clunk. It followed Pepperwort rather stiffly out into the yard.

Stonecrop and Pepperwort placed the saddle on the creature's back. Number Five promptly sat down, which made fastening all the straps a bit of a chore. Stonecrop sighed. Snakeweed's fire-breather had been the only decent one in the stable -- all the rest should have been pensioned off years ago.

Eventually the fire-breather stood up again, and they all mounted. It took a long time to get to the runway, but once there Number Five seemed to perk up a bit. It broke into a gallop but didn't pick up enough speed to take off at its first attempt. With a heavy sigh it came to a halt, trudged all the way back, turned around, and had another go. This time it managed to catch an updraft, and they rose slowly into the air. It banked sharply a couple of times, and Pepperwort

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could hear its labored breathing as it searched for a thermal. It was clear that they would have to stop several times for a rest and refueling.

Felix and Betony changed out of the flowing robes and back into their normal clothes as soon as they reached Tromm Fell. Then they had a quick drink and a bite to eat, and Betony tried the royalty spell again, but the king and queen were obviously sleeping in.

Thornbeak looked worried. "I hope it does something soon," she said. "Felix wants to get home now that he's got what he originally came for -- but we need him to rescue the king and queen first, and we still don't know where they are. I've got a hunch they're not too far away, though -- flame-birds don't fly west of here, and it was a flame-bird who brought the information. It's a pity there aren't any other mythical beings available to break the spell."

"Wrong," said Felix, delving into his backpack.

"Oh!" said Betony. "The snail!"

"Brilliant," said Thornbeak. "I won't apply the countercharm to it until I need to, though. It'll be easier to transport as marble. Ironclaw will continue the search, leaving you free to go home, Felix."

Betony's face clouded over for a moment at the mention of Felix's departure. Then her chin lifted slightly. "I'm going to go to the Andrian Divide with Felix," she announced. "I'm going to say good-bye there. I'll find out what's happening